


You are, we are

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: (or is it), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poisoning, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Talking, set Abundance on fire, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 02:17:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Viktor stumbles upon the Vory boss lying unconscious and decides to help. It leads to strange things.





	You are, we are

**Author's Note:**

> =* to Haaska for the idea.

To find Anton Rogue on the street wounded and unconscious is not what Viktor would expect on a normal day. He considers his options. He should leave the Vory boss here. Or maybe give him basic first aid and then leave.

Viktor decides to get Anton to safety (which is not exactly easy because Anton is quite heavy while out). He even manages to find rational arguments supporting this idea: he needs to keep an eye on the Rogue, he doesn’t want anyone stumbling upon the Rogue.

There are several questions about it.

First of all: what was the Vory boss doing here? (Thinking of Anton as a “crook”, “perp” or anything like that always felt disrespectful; Viktor knows when to insult and when to show respect.) It’s back streets near the Source. It’s not that the Rogue wouldn’t be allowed here, and besides, Anton always says, quite loudly, that this is _his_ city. Nobody can bar him from any part of it.

Perhaps Anton has contacts here? Viktor would be more surprised if the Vory boss _didn_ _’t_ have any. But why visit the contact in person?

Another, more worrying question: who could have done this to Anton? (Viktor suppresses the urge for violence.) The Vor is notoriously ferocious and resilient. Some of the old bosses, their days long past, grumble about Anton, say he doesn’t understand. That you climb to the top exactly so you could leave brawling to others.

But look who’s deposed and who’s running the streets now. Anton must be Viktor’s age (Viktor has never managed to find definitive papers on Anton; as though the man doesn’t exist, as though he’s the living soul of the city) and strong as an ox and quick like a cat.

Which, again, begs the question: who has done it?

Someone new and powerful? Someone angry enough with Anton?

Someone lucky?

It happens sometimes. The universe is a cruel place where people die in the alley for no reason.

Viktor manages to drag his... ward to his out-of-HQ apartment, since it’s closer, and getting Anton up is adventure of its own. He’s getting worried that Anton is unconscious for so long.

He lowers Anton carefully on the bed... and realizes Anton is asleep.

Viktor runs his fingers over the Vor’s head regardless (such a handsome head), but it doesn’t seem Anton has been hit on the head.

It’s that worrying slumber after being unconscious, and Viktor is faced with another problem: he has to get Anton undressed to check his injuries. Which would have been less of a problem, had Anton been wearing his usual jacket and the white shirt and a tie—but he’s wearing one of those tunics very uncharacteristic for the city. One of those that the traveling merchants wear. A disguise? Was he working undercover?

Most people are usually so easy to crack. The higher they are, the easier it gets: their motives, their actions, their aspirations.

But the Vory boss is so many mysteries rolled in one, defying expectations all the time. It is... engaging. Thrilling. Very interesting.

...And Anton isn’t wearing anything under the tunic, by the Shadow.

Anton wakes with a definite sense that he is in an unfamiliar place and not alone. So he charges, closes his hand on a throat, presses the body to the wall.

The first thing that breaks through the haze of angry panic is, the eyes. Steely and wet and very calm. (Long eyelashes. Huh.) And then, the high cheekbones, and the elegant eyebrows, and... (Dark circles under the eyes, and a speck of blood on the lips—bitten?)

Mad pulse, Anton can feel it even through the collar of the turtleneck. So... vulnerable. He can press just so, and Viktor would lose consciousness...

Wait. _The Colonel._ Fuck.

Anton eases his grip very carefully and makes a few steps back. (He can still feel it beating into his fingers. The Colonel’s life.) “I... am sorry.” He feels hazy, and now that his anger rushes away, pain rushes in.

He sits down—on what turns out to be a bed—grumbling, “Why is it always fucking rib— Wait.” He looks at the colonel again. (Without the body armor and the jacket, the colonel looks... unfamiliar. Sharp and dangerous as fuck, but softer, a little.) “You. That means, I’m back in Ophir.” And he’s half-undressed, he realizes, looking at his nemesis. And not actively dying. And the pull of his skin tells him that he’s stitched up.

And the colonel looks smug—in those damned eyes, not in anything else—so that means, the bastard is the one who patched him up.

He looks around. He needs to put something on—he doesn’t have any problems with walking the city half-naked, but just for the sake of... something. (The room is very ordered, but, despite having few items, it doesn’t look empty.)

“I advise you to take rest.”

“And lose more time?” he grumbles. He is certain he was wearing something. A blue tunic. Where... Oh fuck, it’s probably ruined now. Such a shame. But maybe he can patch it up yet?

“You fell asleep, Mr. Rogue.”

“Yep, and lost time.”

The colonel huffs. “You know that people need sleep for functioning?”

“That includes you, _mon Colonel_.” Gods, he’s dizzy. And tired, and his eyes feel scratchy.

He hates being indebted to anyone. How is he going to repay it now? Hold on.

He looks at the colonel (holding a damned book and watching him... fucker, with amusement). “Why did you help me?”

“Because you needed help.”

“This doesn’t make sense. With me being me, and you being you, and us being us...” He trails off.

Viktor quirks a brow. (Anton wants to make some noise in reply to this. He doesn’t know what noise, exactly.)

“All right, _I_ don’t make much sense either.”

The colonel smiles. It makes his cheekbones softer. “As I said, you need rest.”

He has to admit that Viktor is right. And also, he has to admit that Viktor has performed an amazing feat, because Anton knows he’s not exactly easy to lug around (plus the height difference). And being indebted sucks, but being ungrateful is worse.

“Thank you, Viktor. For saving my hide.” Maybe he can ask Viktor to lend him some shirt? He tries to imagine himself wearing a shirt with some Bureau patch...

“I don’t need a fight for power among the gangs right now.”

“See? _Now_ you make sense.” He pulls the coverlet off the bed and wraps it around his shoulders. Still cold. Fuck, maybe he’s feverish.

He looks up at Viktor because no witty comeback comes—and Viktor is frowning slightly. As though he’s uncertain about his own reasoning. Then Viktor closes the book. (Anton doesn’t catch the title. Shame.) “You should stay, Mr. Rogue. I will not let you undo my work by walking out and dying on the next intersection.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you this way,” he grumbles and closes his eyes. He is certainly having chills.

But even in his less-than alert state, he is aware of Viktor moving close. Very close. Hooking a finger under Anton’s chin and tilting his head up...

“Open your eyes, please.”

He doesn’t want to. But he does it.

Viktor’s clinical gaze rakes over his face thoroughly. “You’ve been stabbed.”

“I expected a more thorough analysis from you, detective.” He can’t help the jab.

Viktor’s eyes meet his own briefly. “You weren’t stabbed here, in Ophir. Impressive that you lived enough to reach the city.”

“Tell me your whole reasoning, detective.”

Viktor tilts Anton’s head to the side. “People around the Source don’t tend to carry knives, especially longer than a palm. And in the Slums, knives are working tools for everyday use, multipurpose. They usually have a serrated part on the blade, or the blade is chipped. It makes for terrible wounds.”

“Quite so, detective. What else?”

Viktor turns his face again to the other side, runs fingers—lightly, very cold—behind his ear. “Your wounds, however, were very clean, and deep, made with something very thin and very sharp, but with a broad blade. Like the fabled glass knives of the traveling merchants. Besides, the attackers knew where to strike to leave you bleeding out and dying slowly. This is not a chance row in an alley, it’s a planned attack.”

“Impressive. I see why you are the best in the Bureau.”

“But, your ribs are bruised, too.”

“Ow.”

“Ow indeed. Which means that either you fell badly—”

“Nope.”

“Or they couldn’t help a kick.”

“Yep.”

“So, this is a planned, well-executed attack—but also _personal_.”

“You are the _bestest_.”

“Also, you are... Are you drunk?”

He grins. “Nope. I’m angry and ranting when drunk, and can’t English. I’m poisoned.”

The way Viktor’s eyes widen a fraction makes Anton purr.

“Mmm, don’t worry, _mon Colonel._ It’s to make my life a little bit harder for a while. To teach me a lesson.”

“You have powerful enemies, Mr. Rogue.”

“But very, very interesting, aren’t they, mon Colonel?”

Viktor lets go of him and he tilts to the side and curls up on the bed. “This poison... It depends on the dose. In small quantities,” he murmurs, his head filled with heat but his body cold, “it makes you more alert. The merchants use it if absolutely necessary.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Viktor’s voice rumbles above him, and then another blanket is pulled over him.

“But in big quantities, it acts as a... slow tranquillizer. The problem is to get the dose right, and I’m a big guy...” He rubs his face on the pillow. It smells nice. Green. “I think... My adversary wanted me to experience _everything_ , be very alert to my pain. But they got the dose slightly wrong. And now I’m going to have a killer hungover.”

“You are going to sleep first.”

“Mhm. Good night, Viktor.”

It is so... surreal, and Viktor is disappointed with himself for not noticing it sooner. And Anton being so flippant about it, as though being poisoned with a mind-altering substance is nothing.

But at least Anton is truly asleep now, and it’s not that heavy slumber but simply deep sleep. In a cocoon of blankets.

Anton looks so... cosy, and Viktor has an inexplicable urge to lie down by his side. And he doesn’t want Anton to wake up alone, in an unfamiliar place, confused again. (It is a _bad_ state and place to wake up in.) Suffering from who knows what kind of “hungover”. So, Viktor can’t leave. And he has his book, and spending hours in a chair is not very comfortable.

So he does get on the bed, propped on pillows. Though at first he finds it hard to concentrate on reading. He keeps throwing glances at Anton (Anton-shaped lump).

His mind is wandering. The tunic is soaking in cold water, and it can be mended, but it won’t get dry when Anton wakes up. So he has to give Anton something to wear.

(He reads a few paragraphs without registering what they are about.)

What can he give to Anton?

Besides an obvious difference in height, they have a significant difference in size. Anton is such a big man. (Viktor smiles to himself, imagining his slim shirts losing the sleeves on Anton.) Perhaps a sweater? Viktor doesn’t like scratchy things himself, so his two sweaters are very soft (one is a gift from Henry). Anton can wear one of them without anything underneath.

One of those sweaters is chunky, and if Anton wears it without anything else, the tattoos will peek... (Viktor had to stop himself from grabbing a notebook to draw all those marks. For Anton’s file, of course.)

But if he gives Anton something, Anton will have to return it later. Viktor is aware of the complex balance of debts and repayment in the Slums, the pride of not owing anyone anything. He doesn’t want to place an additional burden on Anton, not like this.

And Anton, being stubborn and proud and seemingly unashamed and unselfconscious, might even refuse and just walk the city half-naked. That would be a sight. Bruised and stitched, but unbroken, triumphant against the odds.

Unlike many big people (especially men) Viktor knows, Anton’s gait isn’t this... slightly rocking motion. Anton _prowls_. Nearly all the time—it’s just natural to him, it seems. (And there is a very, very slight, barely noticeable limp. An old knee injury? There are rumors.)

His mind turns back to the tattoos. He knew Anton had them—but he didn’t expect them to be so extensive. Or so beautiful. He wonders at their meaning.

Gangs often have tattoos, but the Vory didn’t seem to have one. (The Vory are an unusual gang.) Anton’s tattoos are a personal matter.

(He turns a few pages.)

Such an extensive work requires dedication, time, not to mention considerable money and pain tolerance. And it is not just a collection of pictures: they are done, obviously, by several artists and in several styles, but they are a part of a bigger picture. Anton as the living canvas. Words and geometry and splashes of color, hugging his ribs, rising up the sternum, spilling on the pectoral muscles, snaking under the armpits. Rising up his arms. Breathtaking.

Viktor wants to draw. Not just sketch or make copies—but for the first time in years he has the abstract but very strong need to draw.

...He ends up falling asleep, too, the book on his chest.

He half-wakes at some point because someone is taking the book away and then covering him with a blanket. Then Viktor falls asleep again.

He wakes slowly—and knows immediately where he is and who he’s with. Whose arm is wrapped around him, tightening ever so slowly.

Strange, that Viktor doesn’t feel alarmed. As though it’s natural, waking up in one bed with Anton Rogue.

But it seems it’s Anton who doesn’t realize where he is—why would he throw an arm over him?

...Something is wrong. The apartment is very quiet—Viktor needs it to be. He doesn’t sleep well with unfamiliar sounds. And he can hear Anton’s breathing—fast and pained.

He reaches for the hand on his chest, and seeks the pulse. It’s beating like mad.

“Anton?”

“Kill me. But, quickly. And with a silencer if you decide to shoot.”

He turns—carefully, slowly, to not shake the bed or jostle Anton.

Anton’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, his brows are knit. He’s sweating and he’s very pale. Anton grips his hand tight.

“How long have you been awake?” And lying in pain like this.

“An hour maybe. Sorry for waking you up.” The vein on Anton’s temple is thrumming.

He runs the fingers of his free hand over it, and Anton tilts his head into his hand. The cold seems to bring relief. “The hungover?”

“Yeah. My head is killing me.”

At least with this, Viktor knows what to do. It looks very much like his own migraines. (It is wrong, Anton being so... helpless.)

“Painkillers?”

“No use.”

He gets out of Anton’s grip. He isn’t sure what time it is, but there is some light filtering into the room. He closes the blinds completely. The blessed dark. “I’ll bring you water.”

“Thanks.”

He makes sure the glass is cool, pours a little tea, so that it’s not just plain water, and brings it into the bedroom, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Anton is a lump of pain on the bed, but he opens his eyes. Viktor sits down on the bed, slides his hand to the back of Anton’s head, helping him sit up. “Drink.”

Anton does, in deep, thirsty gulps. His cheek is wet under the heel of Viktor’s palm. The pain so devastating it’s driving him to tears.

It’s so wrong.

He takes the empty glass from Anton’s trembling hands—and Anton grips his wrist. “Don’t go.”

“I’m here.”

Anton turns his head away. “...Don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I’ll keep it a secret. Pretend it didn’t happen, if you want.” Anton Rogue at his mercy—but not how he sometimes wanted it to be. In his bed. All this strength—crumbling under a headache.

“Yes. I know you pretend well.”

“I know what it’s like. Or, something like this, in any case.” He keeps his voice quiet, his hand on Anton’s head. “Migraines. Devastating.” It seems important to offer vulnerability in return. He is witnessing Anton in pain—he should assure him he can be hurting, too.

“Yeah,” Anton rasps. “You look like the type to have migraines.”

He frowns. “It’s... not the first time for you, is it?”

“No. I know the effects of this stuff.”

“I have ice...”

“No. Your hands are better. Unless you don’t want to...”

“No, it’s all right.” He shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position. He realizes it’s better if he lies down, because he has to hunch, but... Maybe not yet. “You were poisoned like this before?”

“Poisoned myself.” A smile flashes fast in the murky darkness. “Had to... go for a week without sleep and got rusty by the end of it. Needed an edge. Botched the dosage. Trying not to fall asleep in the middle of a shootout was not fun. Hungover later was even worse.”

He strokes Anton’s temple with the tips of his fingers. He can’t imagine... No, the problem is he _can_ imagine. And he doesn’t like it at all.

“Idiot.”

“Can’t disagree, _mon Colonel._ ”

They talk, Anton often losing the thread, lapsing into silence. Viktor keeps listening to his breathing, to any bad changes. He gets on the bed again, and Anton immediately moves to him, presses himself close, throws an arm over him and slides another under him.

Viktor wraps his hands around Anton in turn, keeps stroking the back of Anton’s head, the nape of his neck, his shoulders—heated and clammy. Anton’s breathing on his neck.

This feels wrong only because Anton shouldn’t be devastated by such pain. Everything else... doesn’t feel wrong.

Viktor isn’t sure whether it’s not a dream, but he vaguely remembers a quiet talk:

“Why did you help me?”

(They ended up, again, with Anton spooning him, Anton’s hand on Viktor’s chest; he wonders sleepily at all this, because usually he doesn’t like being touched.)

“I really don’t need a war.”

“A reason. But not...”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

(Anton’s breathing on the nape of his neck; he wants to shiver but his body is heavy; he’s relieved that Anton’s breathing isn’t pained anymore.)

“How are you talking? You’re half-asleep.”

“I need to know.”

(Anton is rubbing his knuckles with a thumb. It’s so shocking. Being touched and _craving_ it.)

“Wrong way to go, for you.”

Anton chuckles. (A puff of air onto his neck, and he _does_ shiver. Not in disgust.) “What’s the right way?”

“Fighting.”

“I _was_ fighting.”

“Not like this. You need to go out with the bodies of your enemies around.”

“Fanfares for the king of Ophir?”

“You are not the king.”

“Some call me that.”

“You are not. You are.. _Ophir_.”

“Hm.” (Anton curls to him tighter. Viktor realizes his head is lying on Anton’s arm. He has a vague urge to lick it.)

“No, Vitya, I think I need to correct it. _We_ are Ophir. Look at us, you and me.”

“I’m not looking, I’m sleeping.”

“Look at us in your mind.”

 _“You_ are supposed to be sleeping.”

“Shh, let me share my perfect metaphor. You, a lofty, arrogant liar, so lonely and broken behind your perfect façade of steel.”

“Anton...”

“And me, egoistic and greedy, and angry and mad behind the web of clever words. Both of us murderers. What a pair. We are meant for each other. Two faces of this rotten city.”

(He certainly shivers this time, presses his face into the heat of Anton’s arm. He is too heavy to open his eyes, but he can picture the veins running under the ink.

He grips Anton’s hand tight.)

“See, sweet thing, you need me. Without me, you can’t provide yourself with a reason.”

“Reason for what?”

“Everything. Giving up the hunt is impossible, because you’d have to face the fact that the hunt was meaningless in the first place.”

“I want to shut you up.”

“You can try. I need you, too, sweet one.”

(He’s barely breathing. He needs to know _why_.)

“For what?”

“For this dance. I can fight you, I can invent a thousand ways to keep three steps ahead. You are tangible, real, alive, mine, my enemy. If we stop, I’d have to face the fact that it’s all pointless. That in the end, I can’t win against Abundance.”

(Anton’s wrist is broad when Viktor closes his fingers on it, then laces their fingers together. Before, Anton’s hand was covering his; now, they are tangled.)

“This is a terrifying outlook.”

“We live in a city that kills so many people every day. You know the statistics. We are stuck here, Vitya. We will never get out.”

“It’s the drug talking. Go to sleep.”

“As you wish.”

In the... afternoon, when Viktor wakes up fully, there is a sense of emptiness when he finds out that Anton has left. And he feels unexplainably disappointed at the missed opportunity to see Anton in that chunky sweater.

The strange talk lingers in his mind, and he doesn't know what's worse: if it really happened—or if it is just a product of his sleep-deprived mind.

When he gets to work, there is a giant bouquet of peonies waiting on his desk.


End file.
